A Memory of the Unforgotten
by AkashiTamashii
Summary: Dave Strider One-shot - Dave is coming home drunk when he sees his friend Karkat on the street. Karkat helps him home, but Dave's thoughts are hazy as he tries to piece together things that his drunken mind can't comprehend. (Hello! First fic with a shitty summary. I hope you like it! Although it's kinda sad. And crappy. Sorry, but please read!)


"I'm just tired."

Every time.

Every time someone asks, you say these words. Every damn time that they ask if you're alright. You usually laugh, and wave them away, eyes rolling behind your shades, although they can't see that. No, no, you would never allow them to see your eyes. Letting them see your eyes would be letting them see you without defense, you need defense, you need protection, you need...

Quiet.

It's loud. Music is blaring, and people are grinding up against each other as you DJ. It's another party that someone hooked you up with, with strangers drinking booze and dancing and shouting, couples (or not) making out on couches, and…

It's loud. You want to go home. Only a few more songs until it's over, and you can go home. It's past midnight, 1:48, and you're tired. You don't know many people here, it isn't fun. But it's getting you money. You practically stare at the clock and count down your minutes until you pack up your shit and get the hell out of there. Your head is pounding, ears still ringing.

You slam the door on your way out.

You feel sick. You are sick. You puke on the side of the road. Fuck. You wipe your mouth with your sleeve, leaning back on a sign, slipping to the ground. You're tired. You want to get home. But you messed up again, you always mess up, and…

What did you do?

You take deep breaths, slipping your shades up to the top of your head, pressing the bridge of your nose to prevent yourself from crying. It's too late. You're crying anyways. You chastise yourself in your head, muttering to yourself to stop, you need to get home, you need it to be…

Quiet.

Someone places their hand on your shoulder. You can't see them very well.. They ask if you're alright. You reply with a joke. Does it look like you're alright? You've already placed your shades back on your face, using a fake grin.

"Yeah, man, I'm fine, just tired. Been a long day."

He helps you up. Sort of. You mostly stand up on your own. He says he's seen you before. You tell him that you're attending high school. You see his face clearly now. You know him. It's Karkat. A 'friend' of yours. You don't think you know him very well. Your brain feels muggy. You drank too much. He frowns, and asks why you reek of booze and are on the street at 2 AM. You pause for a moment, then ask why he's out at 2 AM.

He doesn't reply.

Both of you are silent as you begin to walk together. There isn't a point of walking together, except so that neither of you are alone. Being alone, is bad, and… You honestly just don't want to be alone.

Your head is still cloudy from alcohol. You begin to think you shouldn't have drunk that much, but free drink was rare for one of your jobs. It's given you the headache. You want to puke again.

You both make small talk as you approach your apartment building, the shabby and worn-down place you don't even dare to call home. Your small talk turns into miniscule talk. Apparently you both live in the same building. You remember this.

You invite him into your house. You Bro still isn't home. He hasn't been in a week. You're glad.

Despite only the two of you being there, that annoying whine in the back of your skull continues to rage on. It's loud.

There's music playing in your house, very quietly in the background. Karkat asks why it's on. You reply that it's there so that it isn't too quiet. You grin. All of this is pointless. You laugh at yourself.

You turn off the music. You're left with only hearing your guest grumble about how messy it is. You scoff, and say that this is what he gets for coming over at two AM and being all suspicious. He falls silent.

You say that you were kidding and that you're tired. He asks if he can sleep here. He doesn't want to go to his apartment. You tell him that it's fine, he can crash on the futon. He thanks you,

You say you need a drink.

"Fuck no, Strider, you aren't getting more drunk than you already are."

You sigh. You get a drink anyways.

Karkat gives a small sigh, but doesn't argue any further. You don't look him in the eyes. He tries to look into yours. You ignore him. And he gives up, with a sigh. You were hoping that he wouldn't give up.

You're scanning him over as you sip on your drink. He's attractive. Has nice curves. You like it. He looks better than you. You're drinking too much, you remind yourself, and let out a small sigh. You're slowly moving closer to him. You don't know what you're doing. You're too drunk and too stupid and you don't realize that you've pinned him to the ground until he lets out a shout.

He's asking what you're doing. You try to reply, try to say that you don't know, but you're being pulled by puppet strings. You don't feel like you're the one in control anymore. You're nibbling at his neck. He's panicking. You blink, you're fully realizing what you're doing, and you move back. You put your head in your hands. You're apologizing over and over and over, and again, you don't know what you're doing.

Your shades clatter to the floor. You don't bother picking them up. Your crying now, again, and you still feel sick. You still feel the whining in the back of your head, and you still feel like disappearing. Karkat asks if you're alright, and you just apologize again, and stand up, heading to your room.

You let out a small sigh, closing your door and going into your bathroom. You look into your mirror, staring into your own red 're puffy and wet, and you find them to be disgusting. You think you're a freak. Your bro doesn't.

There are bags under your eyes. You haven't slept in a few days, worried that he might come home and find you vulnerable. You are vulnerable, and you're afraid he might think so, too.

You pull off your long-sleeved shirt. Your bruises still haven't healed yet. You tell yourself that you don't care about them, but you do. Your ribcage still hurts. From the last time they hit you. From The last time they… No, no… Your stomach clenches, threatening to give away at your anxiousness. You shake your head, you put your shades back on, you… You hear something.

Karkat is knocking on your door. You say he can come in. Fuck, you didn't mean to say that. You're scrambling for a shirt, but it's too late. When he sees you, he stops abruptly. He's looking at your bruise-covered skin. There are a lot of scars, and he can see that. He can also see that some of those look like ones of your own making. You make it seem like you're staring blankly at him, but under your shades, your eyes are squeezed shut. He opens his mouth.

"What are those?"

You weren't expecting him to say anything. You're about to start crying again. You want your shades. You cover up your eyes and sink to the ground. You ask him to not look at you. You're shaking. You're apologizing again and again and asking him to look away because you are disgusting, and you are vile and…

You're whispering now. You whisper that your head is still ringing, and you still feel like puking, and that you still feel like dying. You whisper to him that he is very beautiful, and that he shouldn't taint himself by touching or helping someone so ugly. You whisper that you are just a disappointment to everyone, a disappointment to your Bro, and that it hurts when you get hit. You whisper that it hurts so bad, but you know you deserve it so much. You say that you deserve it because you're weak, because you're stupid, and that when you're crying alone in the bathroom, or puking from too much alcohol or cigarettes, he doesn't hit you, because he never does. . You whisper that he never hits you, and you want him to, and that you are tired. You are so, so tired of having to be here. Having to be alive…

It's quiet. Everything except that ringing in the back of your head and the tiny breaths you're taking is so quiet. But you still think that it isn't enough.

You're almost fully sober now. You're remembering more and more, and it hits you. Once again, you remember, and your eyes are hit with a fresh wave of tears. Tears that you hate, almost as much as you hate yourself.

Last spring, at the docks, Karkat had killed himself. He isn't here now, he never held your hand, you never held him in your arms, he didn't walk home with you, and he didn't ask you about your scars tonight.

You're standing up now. You're being wracked with sobs, and you lean on a wall to hold yourself up. You're saying to yourself that your Bro won't care, and you know he won't. You don't close the door on your way out, knocking over the bottle of tequila on your way as you head into the hall. You're being loud, and your neighbors might wake up, but you don't care. You don't care anymore, and now you're stumbling up the flights of stairs.

It takes a while to get to the top floor, but you get there, eventually. You head out onto the roof, slamming the door open. You're falling to the ground, on your knees, sobbing again as you hear a car pull up into the driveway. Your head hurts, and you pull yourself up, only to puke again. You curse loudly, sobbing to yourself, saying that you don't deserve to be here, that you shouldn't…

A car door slams. Someone's rushing inside. You're pulling yourself to the edge of the roof, where you've had so many strifes with Bro. It's beginning to rain, and you're getting wet, in only your jeans. It's cold. You're head is ringing. Pounding...

… And it's loud. You pull yourself to your feet. Someone is coming onto the roof. You don't want to look back to see who. You pull yourself up onto the side of the roof, looking down and feeling dizzy from the height. You don't care. You look back for a moment, and are almost surprised to see your Bro, standing there, shock on his face. He's running to you in an instant, but it's already too late.

You whisper that you're sorry, and you jump.

It's whirring past, too fast, and then the ringing gets louder. Then, there's a crack, and the ringing slowly fades away. It's quiet. The tears are still dripping down your cheeks, as your vision fades.

And that was the day you, Dave Strider, died of suicide at 2:34 AM on a rainy Monday morning at your six story tall apartment building.


End file.
